[on a vision of Jean Cocteau, perhaps]
everything wanted something different:
who can say how much the wind
wanted to be wind chimes
the stars to be grassland.
even the gold leaf said no.
but crimson...
the gold leaf under moonlight,
that dreamed it was snow
and capable of melting
and melting wanted to be freezing
staying to be going
reflections to be mirrors
and her sisters wanted the treasure chests open,
all of them: now.
only she, out of all of them,
wanted just a rose
simply because
she was one
mary angela douglas 15 june 2014
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